


The Tune of August

by Mickey_kayla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Music, Supernatural based on August rush, long lost son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mickey_kayla/pseuds/Mickey_kayla
Summary: Lisa and Dean thought they were souls matched in Heaven, but dreams only last until you wake up. Years later as Dean goes to play guitar in the park for a few extra bucks he finds that maybe he hasn't woken up from his dream after all.





	The Tune of August

There I stood, yelling at the only woman I’ve ever loved. She had run out of our apartment refusing to tell me why she was leaving. We had only been together for a couple months, but I knew that I was forever in love with her. Tears began running down her frost bitten cheeks reddening her brown eyes, the rain soaking her black hair. Why was I here? How did we end up this way? This is nothing like I imagined love to be. She lowered her head, her hands resting over her stomach. Staring at the picture I held in my hand.

“I have to go Dean,” she said turning toward the sidewalk. While grabbing for the picture.

“ Lisa, come on, just tell me whats wrong. I can fix this,” I pleaded reaching for her arm.

She stopped, making sure not to look at my face. Part of the now ripped photo in her hand. “Just don’t follow me, It’s better off this way,” she said pulling away,” bye Dean.”

She started walking down the the sidewalk. I wanted to follow, but I couldn’t move, as if she had commanded my feet to stay. That was the last time I would ever see her. All I would have left was half a picture of her beautiful face and the painful and wonderful memories embedded in my thoughts. I’d never forget, how could I when she took a piece of my soul with me.

It has been ten years since that night. I haven’t changed much. I still have dark brown hair and bright green eyes. I was still trying to figure out my life and still failing at it. Yup, I was still me, still Dean Winchester, class A fuck up. I started focusing more on playing the guitar, jumping from gig to gig, but every August I make it a necessity to go to the park and play for the woman in my memories. That’s where I first met her after all. No matter how old the memory it will always be in your mind. Because that's what memories do after all. Bury themselves into your concious, always appearing even when you try everything in your being to exterminate them.  So, here I am. Guitar strapped on back, leather jacket on my arms, I made my way down to the city, walking the dirt stricken streets. The rays from the sun seemed to mask the cold breeze and gave the air a comforting demeanor. The cars beeping and honking surrounded me, the sound scratching like a broken record. When I reached the park the air quieted, a few people strolling by, some sitting on benches others laying in the grass or holding hands by the pond. The birds sang, their rhythmic tune carrying through the cool air. In the middle was a concrete patio. Trees based in brick cubes were scattered throughout the patio giving contrast to the dull atmosphere. I picked my cube and unknowingly started flipping my guitar pick through my fingers, a long habit of mine. I just about got my case opened when I heard it! The sound of guitar strings. I turned, searching for the source of the sound. To my left sat a boy, no older then ten, who was strumming a guitar atop a ledge of bricks not too far from me. I couldn’t help myself, I had to check this out. I gathered up my stuff and headed over. As I approached, I gingerly set my guitar on the ledge and followed by clumsily hopping up and sitting next to the boy. His stature was small, but built. His arms barely rounding over the top of the guitar. His face was splattered with freckles and his dark brown hair stuck up in a spikey mess. I picked up my guitar and started playing. He turned and stared, in amusement, His bright green eyes looking my guitar up and down. To my surprise he played along with me with a smile growing upon his face. We played and smiled as people gathered around clapping their hands and tossing coins and bills into our guitar cases. We were enjoying playing so much that before we knew it, it was dark. The park grew quiet and soon we were the only ones left. I finally realized we had been playing for hours, but I still didn’t know this boys name. He sat next to me swinging his legs back and forth off the edge.

“So, kid, what should I call you?” I finally asked.

“So, Mr. what should I call you?” he replied.

“So, we’re going to play that way, huh? I got you,” I said smiling back at him, “Dean. My name is Dean.”

“Benjamin, but you can call me Ben.” he said.

“Benjamin, huh? kind of a old man name don’t you think?” I said teasingly

“You should talk, Dean.”

“Touche,” I laughed. “So where’s your mom, Benjamin. You can’t be here by yourself.”

“It’s Ben and I don’t know, I’ve never met her or my dad. All I know about my mom is the picture I have of her, but it’s ripped in half so you can only see part of her face. I think she's still pretty.”

He reached into his pocket feeling for his picture while looking at the old watch on his wrist. “Six o’clock already, I’m going to be late. Thanks, Mr, I mean Dean, I had a lot of fun,” he said jumping off the ledge onto the pavement. He hopped along trying to run with his guitar.

“Hey, where are you going? Hey Ben!”

“Bye Dean!” Finally he made it to the street and out of sight around the corner

“Bye Ben.” I mumbled as I put my guitar back into its case. I stepped down from my pedestal, grabbed the case, and threw it over my shoulder and the strap across my chest. I started on my way back home then stopped. Crap, my pick. I’d forgotten it at the park. Quickly I jogged back watching my step, making sure not to trip on any cracks. Finally I made it to my spot and there sat the pick.

“There you are,” I said picking up my prize.

As I started to place my pick back into its case when I noticed out of the corner of my eye a torn piece of paper or possibly a photo. It was upside down, but it looked worn and wrinkled like it had been touched many times. Ben must have left his picture. I reached over and sure enough it was a picture -- half a picture of a woman, a black haired, brown eyed woman. “This couldn’t be,” I said in disbelief reaching into my pocket. I pulled out her picture always being sure to carry it with me. With each half in either hand I drew them together. A perfect fit.


End file.
